Revelations
by Selena
Summary: Opening scene of Wrecked, Buffy POV.


Title: Revelations  
  
Disclaimer: Owned by Joss Whedon, Marti Noxon and a bunch of other incredibly talented people.  
  
Spoiler: For "Wrecked"  
  
Author's Note: Because I could hear the Buffy Bashing starting already.  
  
  
  
Revelations  
  
So it wasn't a dream, is all you can think. You did this. You had sex with Spike, and you were so much into it that you didn't even notice the building falling down around you. And there he is. Looking like he had the time of his life. Don't look at him. Don't look at him.  
  
Clothes, now. Think about this when you're away, when you're alone, because if you try to figure out this now, what it means, it'll all start again, and you're messed up already as it is. Sex with Spike. You came back wrong, he said, and that was when you started to lose it. You always suspected there was something wrong about you. Dreamt about it, that weird time the First Slayer came to visit, when the man who was and was not Adam told you: "Aggression is a natural human tendency, though you and I come by it another way."  
  
Another way, right. Like that way you and Spike slammed each other against the walls last night, like the way you made short work of his zipper, something you never did, ever, before. Certainly not with Riley, who would have been shocked. Wrong. You came back wrong. No, don't think about this. Get your clothes, and get out.  
  
"Shoe. I need my shoe", you say, and every time you hear your voice which is still your voice, as if nothing has happened, your panic increases. You have to appear normal, when you return to the house. Normal Buffy equals clothed Buffy. With shoes. The last time Dawn saw you without your shoes was when you had just returned from the. no. Don't think about that. Thinking about that will lead to thinking about Spike again, who was there that night as well, and that was when this whole weirdness started. Think about Dawn instead.  
  
"What's the hurry, love?" he purrs. Do men purr? He's still stretched out on the floor, one arm behind his back. Scratches on him, too, just as they are on you. This is so not good. Don't look at him.  
  
"The hurry is I left Dawn all night," you reply, and this, too, becomes real while you say it. Left Dawn, who is still in misery about the Willow/Tara breakup, and was probably waiting an eternity for you to return from patrol. What kind of irresponsible person would do that? Only one who came back wrong and had sex with a soulless vampire who'd still be trying to kill you and all your friends if it weren't for a chip and the fact he fell in love with you. You're sick. "And don't call me 'love.'"  
  
He smiles at you, and though you thought you've seen every variation of the Spike smirk before, this one stirs something in you. You can't decide whether it is the urge to punch him or jump his bones again. Sick. You're sick. "You didn't seem to take issue with  
  
that last night," he says, stretching. "Or with any of the other little nasties we whispered."  
  
Stop it, you think, more and more aware what power you've handed to him now. Years ago, when he was still your enemy and you made one of your more hurtful blunders with Parker the Jerk, he was there to watch it, and you remember very well what he taunted you with then. 'Did you bruise the boy' he had sneered, and gone in to speculate about your almost non-existant sex life. Well, now he doesn't need to speculate any longer.  
  
"Can we not. Talk," you snap at him. There's that shoe. At least one thing which goes right this morning. Put it on. Then get out.  
  
"I just don't see why you have to run off so quick," he complains, sounding for all the world like a little boy whose sweets are taken away. Makes you feel vaguely guilty, because a part of you thinks it's cute. Spike isn't cute. He's messed up, and you're messed up. It's one big mess, and you have to get out of there, like, now. "I thought we could..."  
  
He lifts an eyebrow. Spike's eyebrows should be R-rated, you think, and slap yourself mentally again. Get a grip, girl.  
  
"Not gonna happen," you shoot back. "Last night was the end of this freak show."  
  
You head to a way out of the rubble, but he catches you and pulls you down into his lap. Which feels like you shouldn't think what it feels like. Dammit.  
  
"Don't say that," he exclaims, sounding hurt. Come on, Spike. Surely it's blindingly obvious the two of us aren't exactly Sunnydale's Finest. Didn't we say so to each other? Wrong. Everything about this is wrong.  
  
"What did you think was gonna happen?" you say, sharply. If he doesn't stop with the snuggling soon, you'll lose it again. So not what is needed right now. "We were gonna read the newspaper together? Play footsie under the rubble?"  
  
With a nonchalance you can't believe, he reaches under your skirt. "Not exactly what I had in mind," he says, and touches you. Just where you want to be touched. Except it's wrong. Wake up, Buffy. It's not the night anymore. Face the new day.  
  
"Stop!" you hiss, and shove at him.  
  
"Make me", he challenges. And suddenly you don't care anymore. Just one more kiss, and then you begin your new life as sensible Buffy, who remembers that you don't share your body with soulless killers, even if they protect sisters and pulled one back bit for bit to reality.  
  
"No," you say, grab him and kiss him. Which is, oh so good. He's kissing you back, and with the taste of him come the memories of last night. Dawn, sensible Buffy inside her screams. And where is your self respect, girl? Can't you keep a resolution about Spike for longer than a minute?  
  
So you push him away again. "No," you murmur, trying to remind yourself. "No. I...I have to..."  
  
His breathless voice makes you quiver inside out. "Stay. I'm stuck here. Sun's up."  
  
And would it be so terrible, really? Just one more hour to indulge in madness. You didn't dream about waking up in your coffin last night. Every night since you came back, but not last night. So maybe you smashed a building between the two of you, but you were free, free of the horror, and also the guilt which wears you down every time you are around your friends and your sister. The silent accusation in their eyes, the disappointment about how you are not at all what they expect and want you to be. Cheerful, normal Buffy. Spike doesn't expect you to be normal.  
  
His next kiss is harder. Spike doesn't expect anything you can't give, right? He knows you don't love him. You told him so. But he has a way of getting under your skin. He always had, it's just that in former times you were safe because he wanted to kill you, and you could just hate him without inhibition. You certainly didn't think about how he makes your skin all tingly.  
  
Somehow you're on the floor again, with him on top. Strange, how familiar his body feels, after only one night, but then, you fought him often enough to remember every pale, sinewy inch of it. And he's there, he hasn't disappeared. He's just like he was the night before, and the night before that.  
  
He knows you, too. Could it be that wrong to trust him? He knows your fears. He won't consider you inadequate and go away. And he certainly knows your body. His lips unerringly find the scars on your neck, and he kisses you. So good. So what if it's wrong? Nobody ever said Slayers had to be.  
  
"I knew," he says, gleeful, triumphant. "I knew the only thing better than killing a Slayer would be..."  
  
And reality crushes down on you once more.  
  
You pushes him away with all the force you can muster. What an idiot. Not him, you.  
  
"What?!"  
  
He told you, remember? If you ever became weak, he'd slip in and have himself a really good day. You were an utter and complete idiot to believe, even for one moment, that it was anything else.  
  
You jump up and scramble to get away from him. "Is that what this is about? Doing a Slayer?"  
  
Idiot Buffy. Stupid Buffy. Of course that is what this is about. You knew, you always knew, how obsessed he was with Slayers. "I could have danced all night with that one", he had said about the Slayer who died in New York, was killed by this man whom you've given access to your body. No, worse, whom you've thrown yourself at as if you couldn't get enough of him. You betrayed her, and the Slayer in China, and all Slayers before them. You betrayed her, and for what?  
  
You never learn. You never, ever learn.  
  
Right now, he's laughing. Of course he does. He got his third Slayer, after all.  
  
"I wouldn't throw stones, Pet. You seem to be quite the groupie yourself."  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
You can't believe this. That you let him touch you. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand.  
  
"I'm just saying," he continues, "vampires get you hot."  
  
Now he's done it, again. Mentioned the other. But two can play this game. You're not that girl anymore, Buffy at 17, who didn't know what to say while her love cut her heart out and trampled on it. You aren't even 19 anymore, getting told by Spike that Angel told him you weren't worth a second go. So Spike thinks he can hurt you? Well, you can hurt him, too. Just wait and see, Spike.  
  
"A vampire got me hot," you return, making your voice as cutting as possible. "One! But he's gone. You're just..." Find a word, find a word now. The most hurtful word possible.  
  
"You're just...convenient."  
  
Take that, you think, and are even more disgusted with yourself because your voice is trembling. What do you care what Spike thinks? He's nothing. Nothing. This is just about showing him you're not weak, not anymore. This Slayer is not done yet.  
  
He stares at you, and you look back. Is that hurt you can see? Good. You're done with Spike looking vulnerable. He looked all vulnerable in his crypt, too, when he was singing that song. While all he wanted was to do his third Slayer.  
  
He gets up, and starts to put his pants on. There is rage now in his movements. Good. This is how it should be. He hates you, you hate him. You're enemies. Everything else is an aberration.  
  
"So," he spits, and the sound of the zipper almost makes you flinch. "What now? You go back to treating me like dirt until the next time you've got an itch you can't scratch? Well, forget it! Last night changed things. I'm done being your whipping boy."  
  
"Nothing's changed," you say, then realise he might misunderstand what you mean, so you clarify. "It was a mistake."  
  
The anger comes stronger now, and you welcome it. Of course you do.  
  
"Bollocks! It was a bloody revelation." Now he's closing in on you again. Revelation indeed. This is so like him. All which is missing is him demanding of you to tell him how much better then the other he was. So who has sexual hang-ups?  
  
Well, both of you. And you're an utter, utter fool. There is no word for how much of a fool you are.  
  
"Now, you can act as high and mighty as you like," he goes on, and lowers his voice again, "but I know where you live now, Slayer. I've tasted it."  
  
No way he's leaning in for another kiss. After what you just told him? After what he has just told you? He's truly sick, same as you, and you have to get out of here post haste.  
  
"Get a grip," you say. "Like you're God's gift."  
  
And just look at his love life anyway. There is Drusilla, who is nuts and preferred to do it with Chaos Demons. And Angel, which is so much not the issue right now. Then there's Harmony, who despite her airs in High School never had had a boyfriend, and whom he treated like a doormat. Really impressive, Spike. But you know if you bring this up, he'll just start with insults on your lovers, and the undeniable fact none of them wanted you enough to stay around. So you keep quiet.  
  
He laughs and bites his lower lip. "Hardly. It wouldn't be nearly as interesting, now would it?"  
  
This is unbearable. It's like being naked again, with no clothes in sight. Damm him and his insight and his vicious tongue and his pretensions of, well, you won't even think the word, which made you trust him. There he is, leaning in again, only to be pushed away by you. You try to get past him, but he catches you again.  
  
"No!" you say. "Let me go."  
  
Now he locks his hands behind your head, not letting you, and you stare into his eyes. Blue, without even a hint of grey, unlike your eyes which are a hopeless muddle of colours and could never settle down on one.  
  
"I may be dirt," he throws at you, "but you're the one who likes to roll in it, Slayer. You never had it so good as me, never."  
  
You never hated him as much as now.  
  
Breaking out of his grip, you retort: "You're bent."  
  
He refuses to blink. "Yeah," he drawls. "And it made you scream, didn't it?"  
  
You never wanted to kill him as much as now.  
  
"I swear to God, if you tell anyone about last night, I will kill you."  
  
Put that stake into your heart, watch you become a pile of dust. Would you still be looking at me while I was doing that, Spike? Probably. They all do. You might have done your third Slayer, but you'll never boast about it. I swear.  
  
"Right," he says, and reaches into his hip pocket. You don't believe it. Your panties, and suddenly you're reminded again of what you found in that bizarre shrine he had build last year. Makes you sick. But these, you've torn away yourself. Torn away to have sex with your enemy of enemies, who kindly reminded you of his true colours again. Mess doesn't begin to describe you.  
  
"You gonna want these, too?"  
  
You permit yourself one punch, just one, before you snatch them and go. Once you've left the remnants of the building behind, you run.  
  
So it wasn't a dream, is all you can think. 


End file.
